REGRETS.
There is no wretchedness where guilt is not;
Religion can relieve the sharpest woes,
All—save remorse, be softened or forgot!
But where can she—the hopeless, find repose
Whose anguish from her own transgression flows!
My pride—my folly—bade a husband die,
His life embittered, hastened on its close!
Yes, weep, ye who can weep,—but I—but I—
My heart weeps tears of blood,—and yet my eyes are dry!
The mind of Ida was not quite satisfied that it was right in her
sister to ascend in the _Eaglet_, contrary to the direct and positive
prohibition of her step-mother. Ida could not help suspecting that she
herself had not proved altogether a safe guide for her younger sister;
she feared that while discouraging the expedition on the plea of danger,
she had not sufficiently done so on the score of duty. The more Ida
reflected on the subject, the more conscience reproached her for rather
nurturing than repressing the spirit of independence which proudly rose
against the control of Mrs. Aumerle, both in Mabel’s heart and her own.
Ida was not one to deaden conscience by refusing to listen to its voice,
and she arose on the morning of the 12th resolved to use her strongest
persuasions to induce Mabel to give up her project. She went to the room
of her sister, but found it already empty; and then proceeded to the
garden, but Mabel had left it some minutes before.
Ida felt that it was too late for her to undo any mischief which might
have been done, and made no mention at the breakfast table of Mabel’s
intention to ascend, not wishing to be the first to draw upon her sister
the displeasure of Mrs. Aumerle.
“Perhaps,” thought Ida, “reflection has had the same effect upon Mabel
that it has had upon myself; she may have come to the like conclusion
that it would be wrong to go in the car. I earnestly hope that it may
be so, for I feel a strange uneasiness at the thought of her venturing
aloft. Yet there can be no real danger, or my uncle would never have
wished to take Mabel with him, nor my dear father have half consented to
her going up in the balloon. If she only come back in safety I shall feel
a weight taken off my heart, and I shall in future more earnestly try to
lead her aright in all things.”
About the hour of noon, as the vicar was writing in his study, he was
interrupted by the entrance of Ida.
“Dearest Papa,” said she, gently approaching him, and seating herself at
his feet, “forgive me for disturbing you when you are busy, but I want
your permission to go and see Annabella again.”
The vicar looked grave, but made no reply.
“When I last went to Mill Cottage with Mabel, and our cousin refused to
see us, you said that it was your desire that we should leave her to
herself for the present; but it is to-day, as you know, that her husband
is to go up in the _Eaglet_, and I cannot help imagining how anxious and
unhappy Annabella must be, because—”
“Because she has goaded him to the step,” said the vicar.
“Somehow I am so restless to-day—I can neither read nor work,—and my
heart draws me towards Annabella. I fancy—it may be presumption, but I
fancy that her spirit may be softened just now, and that some word might
be spoken which might make it more easy to reconcile her to her husband.
Have I your consent to my going?”
“I will go with you, my child,” said the vicar putting up his papers and
locking his desk. “I believe that anything that we may say to that poor
misguided girl will be likely to have more effect during the absence of
Dr. Bardon. Whatever may be the cause for his dislike, it is evident that
he nourishes a strong prejudice against the Earl of Dashleigh.”
It was not long before the father and daughter, bound on their errand of
love, reached the cottage in which the countess had chosen to take up her
abode. They were ushered into the sitting-room where they found Cecilia
bending pensively over a piece of embroidery, and the countess with a
book in her hand, which she had, however, only taken up as a device for
silencing conversation, as during the last half-hour she had not turned
over a leaf.
Miss Bardon welcomed her guests with smiles; Annabella with a stiff
politeness, which said as distinctly as manner could convey meaning,
“There must be no entering upon any disagreeable subject of conversation;
the parson must not preach, nor the friend attempt to persuade.”
Ida’s heart yearned over her cousin, but she had not courage to break
through that formidable barrier of reserve. The vicar saw that the first
sentence bordering upon reproof would be the signal for his niece to
quit the apartment. Disappointed, but not yet disheartened, the good
man inwardly prayed that He who can alone order the unruly wills and
affections of his sinful creatures, would bend the proud spirit of the
haughty girl, and open her eyes to her error. Little did he dream of the
manner in which that prayer would be answered!
As might be imagined, under the circumstances the conversation was
constrained; Miss Bardon principally sustained it, for she was the only
one present who could talk at ease on all the trifling topics of the day.
“Hark!” exclaimed Cecilia suddenly, “there is a horse running away!” and
her words seemed confirmed by so rapid a clatter of hoofs, that not only
Ida, but Aumerle and the countess followed her quickly to the open door
to see if some rider were not in peril.
The alarm was in one sense a false one; the horse that came gallopping on
was impelled to furious speed by the whip and the spur of its rider, as
if—
“Headlong haste or deadly fear
Urged the precipitate career;”
and the party saw with surprise that this rider was Dr. Bardon. He reined
up so suddenly at the garden-gate that the panting steed was thrown
violently back on its haunches. The doctor flung himself quickly from the
saddle, and without even pausing to throw the rein round a post, advanced
to the party at the door. His long white hair streamed wildly back from
his excited face.
“Something has happened!” exclaimed Ida; Annabella’s tongue seemed to
cleave to the roof of her mouth!
“The balloon!” cried Cecilia; “tell us, oh! tell us, has some accident
befallen the balloon?”
The gesture of Bardon was one which might well have beseemed a prophet of
desolation, as raising his arm he exclaimed, “Lost! lost! past recovery!”
“How lost?—what would you have us believe?—remember in whose presence you
speak!” cried Lawrence Aumerle almost sternly.
“I cannot mince my tale,” was the gloomy reply, “nor deal out poison by
drops. By some fatal mistake the balloon was let off before the car had
been entered by the only man who could guide it. We are never likely to
hear anything more of it, or the unfortunate beings within it!”
“Who were in it?” exclaimed the Aumerles in one breath. “Who were in it?”
echoed the countess in a sepulchral voice, fixing upon Bardon an eye
which sought to read in his face a sentence of life or death.
“Augustine Aumerle was there—and Mabel—”
The father uttered an exclamation of anguish, and Ida staggered
backwards, closing her eyes, as if a poniard had stuck her.
“And—and—the Earl of Dashleigh!”
Annabella gave such a piercing cry as agony might wring from a wretch
upon the rack, and would have sunk on the earth but for the support of
her uncle.
“There may be hope yet,—God is merciful,—He will have compassion on
us,—let us pray, let us pray!” exclaimed the vicar, in the sight of the
misery of another seeming half to forget his own.
“See—see!” exclaimed Cecilia, suddenly pointing towards the sky.
There was breathless silence in a moment, and every eye was eagerly
turned in the same direction. A small dark object appeared aloft,
floating far, far higher than wing of bird ever could soar! Who can
describe the intensity of the agonizing gaze fixed by father—sister—wife,
upon that little distant ball? Arms were wildly stretched towards it,
but not a word was uttered, scarce a breath was drawn while it yet
remained in sight. Even when it had disappeared, the upwards-gazing
group seemed almost as if transfixed into stone; till Bardon, with rough
kindness, attempted to draw Annabella back into the cottage, muttering,
“I feel for you, from my soul I do!”
“Feel for me!” exclaimed the countess, shrinking from his touch with an
expression of horror, her pent-up anguish finding vent in passionate
upbraiding; “you who led me to this abyss of misery, you who roused up my
accursed pride, you who made me write words which I would now only too
gladly blot out with my heart’s blood! But for you I might have listened
to truth; but for you I might never have left the true friends to whom I
turn in my agony now! Oh, may God forgive you,” she added wildly,—“God
help me to forgive you, but never, never enter my presence—never let me
behold you again!”
And so they parted, the tempter and the tempted—the countess to return to
the vicarage with her almost heart-broken companions, Dr. Bardon to brood
in his solitary cottage over deep, unavailing regrets!
In the dark abode of endless woe thus may bitter recrimination deepen the
anguish of the lost, when some wretched soul recognises the author of his
misery in one called on earth his friend, who had stirred up his evil
passions, and pampered his fatal pride!